


Understood.

by ectothermal



Series: baby teeth [3]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Prompt fill: Backhand Slap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectothermal/pseuds/ectothermal
Summary: Stiles catches a little glimpse of how Daddy made Dean the way he is.





	Understood.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AzrielRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzrielRose/gifts).



> Prompt fill for Bad Things Happen Bingo:
> 
> "for your Bad Things Happen prompts: How about Backhand Slap in your Baby Teeth au. you decide who gets slapped and why–I’m interested in all of them, so whether it’s Sam/Stiles, or you use this as an excuse to explore Sam/Dean or Dean/John, I’ll be just as happy (or someone else slaps stiles, and Sam “comforts” him, I dunno). Anything you do, I’ll love. :)" from my babe [AzrielRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzrielRose/pseuds/AzrielRose) ♥

“I’ve told you a hundred goddamn times, Dean—”

“Dad—”

“Dean, you pick up when I call you! No exceptions!” Daddy slams the door behind the both of them, fist twisted in the back of Dean’s jacket; he shoves his oldest son into the living room, where Dean shrugs his shoulders hard, both to readjust his jacket and to let out some of his frustration; he seethes while Daddy empties his pockets onto the table by the door. Stiles barely catches sight of them before stopping dead in his tracks on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He ducks behind the edge of the archway that leads into the hallway, crouching low and breathing shallowly to try not to make any noise.

“Five minutes, Dad, it took me _five minutes_ —” Daddy doesn’t like that. He starts swinging before he even turns around, catching Dean across the mouth with the back of his hand. Stiles gasps at the same time that Dean yelps in pain; for a moment, his oldest brother sounds just like a little kid.

“Shut _up,_ Dean. You listen to me: I don’t pay for that fucking phone for you to ignore it to bury your face in some jailbait pussy instead, you pick up the phone when I _fucking_ call you. Understood?” Daddy grabs the front of Dean’s shirt, tugging him in close, and his voice drops low, sounding like the predatory growl of a wolf with his face inches from Dean’s; Dean’s head is bowed low, hand clamped over his mouth. “Answer me, Dean.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean mumbles behind his hand; Stiles’ knuckles turn white where his fingers are clamped tight around the moulding that borders the hallway entrance.

“Let me see.” Daddy wraps his big hand under Dean’s jaw, tilts his head up; Dean finally drops his hand to reveal a smear of red across his mouth, pouted from the way Daddy’s fingers dig hard into his cheeks. Stiles’ eyes go wide—Daddy’s wedding ring must have caught Dean right on the mouth, split both of his lips wide open.

Daddy leans down.

Stiles should go back to his room.

Daddy licks all the way up from Dean’s chin to his upper lip, slow and deliberate, clearing a thick stripe through the wash of blood on his face; Dean jerks backward, eyes squeezed shut, a new, watery flow of blood rushing from the cuts in his lips.

Stiles should go back to his room, but he’s frozen stiff.

“Daddy—” Dean’s voice comes out hoarse, hushed in a way that Stiles can’t remember hearing his oldest brother speak before. Daddy cuts him off, shushing him, shaking Dean’s head in his hand for a moment.

“You look so much like your mother, sometimes,” he says, distant, like he got lost in the words; it only lasts a moment, and he releases Dean with a little shove. “Go to bed. You and I leave first thing in the morning.”

Stiles jolts backward into the corner as Dean turns toward the hall; Daddy’s room is on the other side of the kitchen, and Stiles can hear his footsteps get further away as Dean’s approach him.

Dean stops right next to him; Stiles slowly looks up at his brother, wide-eyed, and he makes to push himself off the floor, shifting onto his hands and knees to stand.

“Are you—” he starts in a whisper, but Dean’s eyes close like he’s just taken another hit, and Stiles falls quiet by the time he gets to his feet. He reaches for his brother instead, to touch him, to hug him, _something,_ but Dean takes a jerky, instinctive step back, and Stiles tugs his hands back to himself, fingers curled and arms pinned to his chest.

“Don’t,” he says. Soft. Defeated. “Stiles, just don’t.”


End file.
